There is an Eastern fable, told long ago, of a traveler overtaken on a plain by an enraged beast. Escaping from the beast he gets into a dry well, but sees at the bottom of the well a dragon that has opened its jaws to swallow him. And the unfortunate man, not daring to climb out lest he should be destroyed by the enraged beast, and not daring to leap to the bottom of the well lest he should be eaten by the dragon, seizes a twig growing in a crack in the well and clings to it. His hands are growing weaker and he feels he will soon have to resign himself to the destruction that awaits him above or below, but still he clings on. Then he sees that two mice, a black one and a white one, go regularly round and round the stem of the twig to which he is clinging and gnaw at it. And soon the twig itself will snap and he will fall into the dragon's jaws.
The traveler sees this and knows that he will inevitably perish; but while still hanging he looks around, sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the twig, reaches them with his tongue and licks them. So I too clung to the twig of life, knowing that the dragon of death was inevitably awaiting me, ready to tear me to pieces; and I could not understand why I had fallen into such torment. I tried to lick the honey which formerly consoled me, but the honey no longer gave me pleasure, and the white and black mice of day and night gnawed at the branch by which I hung. I saw the dragon clearly and the honey no longer tasted sweet. I only saw the unescapable dragon and the mice, and I could not tear my gaze from them. and this is not a fable but the real unanswerable truth intelligible to all. Leo Tolstoy. My Confession (1882)
I am just starting the second week of an online continuing education course at Stanford this summer: The Meaning of Life.
The initial readings — Tolstoy, Schopenhauer, Camus, — are paving the way for who we will ultimately study: Nietzsche and Kirkegaard.
Reading The Myth of Sisyphus for the first time in 40 or 50 years reminds me of how as a young college student and philosophy major, I gravitated towards reading morose writers. It was at a time of my life when I was desperately looking for meaning and, unable to find it, connected intimately with the works of nihilists.
When I signed up for the Stanford course, I wasn’t aware that I would be revisiting these writers so intensely nor that the question on the meaning of life would be so depressing to study.
What comes to mind most to me over the past week as I have been immersed in the readings and class discussions is how relevant this question is for us now as we face the climate crisis, which will transform life for hundreds of millions of people by 2050 (according to the latest IPCC draft report).
Are our conceptions about what life is ultimately all about different when faced with the real possibility of the extinction of our species? What would Nietzsche, for example, have written were he alive today? His despair was over the death of god and his response to this was the superman, so evolved that he can justify the existance of the entire human race.
There is a story in Hindu philosophy about the great Lord Shiva who was once deep in meditation for a thousand years. His wife, Shakti, overwhelmed by all the suffering around her, kept trying to wake him, begging him to open his eyes and look at the state of the world. When he finally opened his eyes, he cried and his tears, falling to earth gave birth to the 'rudraksha' fruit which is represented in mala or meditation beads. It is not likely we will find a Lord Shiva or a superman to solve our crisis. There is no one coming to save us.
So what is the meaning of our life moving forward given the grave circumstances we now exist in?
I suppose we might consider living lives commited to preserving what remains to us, to doing our part to repair the planet, however insignificant that might be in the grand scheme of things. That might give us a sense of purpose, but is it enough to bestow on us meaning?
And I get so furious at Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk and their silly race to be the first civilians in space, tossing around billions of dollars which could be used to help the most vulnerable regions in the world adapt, create, employ solutions.
Tolstoy, as he comes to the conclusion of his piece “My Confessions,” further writes:
What happened to me was something like this: I was put into a boat (I do not remember when) and pushed off from an unknown shore, shown the direction of the opposite shore, had oars put into my unpractised hands, and was left alone. I rowed as best I could and moved forward; but the further I advanced towards the middle of the stream the more rapid grew the current bearing me away from my goal and the more frequently did Iencounter others, like myself, borne away by the stream. There were a few rowers who continued to row, there were others who had abandoned their oars; there were large boats and immense vessels full of people. Some struggled against the current, others yielded to it.
And the further I went the more, seeing the progress down the current of all those who were adrift, I forgot the direction given me. In the very centre of the stream, amid the crowd of boats and vessels which were being borne down stream, I quite lost my direction and abandoned my oars. Around me on all sides, with mirth and rejoicing, people with sails and oars were borne down the stream, assuring me and each other tha tno other direction was possible. And I believed them and floated with them. And I was carried far; so far that I heard the roar of the rapids in which I must be shattered, and I saw boats shattered in them. And I recollected myself. I was long unable to understand what had happened to me. I saw before me nothing but destruction, towards which I was rushing and which I feared. I saw no safety anywhere and did not know what to do; but, looking back, I perceived innumerable boats which unceasingly and strenuously pushed across the stream, and I remembered about the shore, the oars, and the direction, and began to pull back upwards against the stream and towards the shore. That shore was God; that direction was tradition; the oars were the freedom given me to pull for the shore and unite with God.
Yes, we could, like Tolstoy, all set out in our boats about the business of making things right. But Tolstoy wrote this before the “God Is Dead” theme permeated philosophy and the arts. I wonder how many of us believe that there is a God who can save us or a God who would stand by as Vishu did when he meditated for all those years while suffering and chaos surrounded him; a God who would wait as our warming world continues to overheat every day until the point where there is no redemption. We are beyond tears. Certainly, we are beyond prayer.
I think of the absolute impermanence of all things material. I think often of the small islands that will disappear, of a world without a Venice. I think of the millions of starving, homeless people, the climate refuges. The incalculable loss of biodiversity. I think of the health disasters which lie before us.
I think of tomorrow and I see no hope. Is the answer to this to live each day to its fullest, to live for the moment? I find it so bizarre, this leitmotif of “live for the moment” which has so mindfully claimed top billing as our collective mantra at a time when viewed through the lens of time, moments are all that are left us.
What is the meaning of the life before us? The life we will turn over to our children and grandchildren? I just don’t know but stay tuned. I am certain this will be part of one of our discussions in this Stanford course. I’m going to make sure of that.